Color Preference
by TitansGirl
Summary: One question can lead to a million different answers. But which answer is going to get Harleen Quinzel out of a simple therapy session alive? JxHQ; Oneshot; Nolanverse; therapy session: set in Arkham Asylum.


**Author's Note: **HI EVERYBODY! :D My, it feels like it's been a while since I updated...hmm. I was watching The Dark Knight a few days ago for the 50 bazillionth time (slight exaggeration, eh? ;P) and I fell in love with the Joker alllllll over again. So, I wrote this! ^.^

This is dedicated to some of the best author's on this site, listed in no particular order: ((I lied, it's alphabetical order... :P))- **_DreamOrNightmare_**(HIYA PUDDIN'! :D), **_KayMoon24_**(Omg! HI KAY! *hugs*) and **_Lady__ Angellic_**(Hello there, doll!)!

AnYwAy, I should get on with the story now. :3 Hope you all enjoy!

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The dark gray walls of the small room felt as if they were all closing in around him. All that could be heard in the grave solitude was the sporadic thrumming of his heartbeat in his ears. His eyes traveled around the room restlessly, glazed and uninterested. The air around him was tainted with miniscule flecks of dust that danced around him, taunting him. He sighed and turned his head to examine the door with intense scrutiny. It was large—light gray and dissuasive. The only entrance and exit to this fiendish prison he was condemned to call 'home.' A throaty chuckle bubbled up his throat as he studied his surroundings without a word. What a curious thought, for he had _nowhere_ to call home. Certain monsters—scourges to humanity—deserved no such luxury. A tart smile tugged at the corners of his scarred lips as bile rose up in his stomach, eating away at his insides. Was this what it felt like to be bored? To be human?

Various noises came to life in his ears. They mocked him with the sound of other patients marching through the halls, footsteps echoing softly and playing over again in his ears. Shadows danced through the crack in the bottom of his door, casting unwanted infiltrations on the floor of his desolate room. The sound of doors closing jarred him from his own thoughts, making him stir slightly on the rough sheets of his bed. His thighs scraped against the rough fabric as he shifted, bed creaking under his weight. The metal headboard squeaked, the bitter protest falling as a profane curse against his sensitive eardrums. He moved restlessly as if each movement was tedious and labored. His spidery legs twisted and his ankles ached under the pressure of shackles. His muscles spasmed underneath the metal cuffs unpleasantly. Reaching up his left hand, he scratched absentmindedly at his chin while the other one followed bound tightly with clinking tin. A small sigh escaped his thin lips, the fluorescent lights casting illumination on his unusually puffy scars. His skin was unbecomingly swollen due to his irritated picking—an unfortunate tendency of his.

He felt naked without his grease paint. Of course he was horribly aware of the fact he was obviously clothed in the most horrendous and itchy orange jumpsuit that was a prerequisite of all criminals taking refuge in Arkham Asylum. The annoying polyester grated at his skin, forcing an everlasting itch to haunt him. His hand traced his features, chains jingling, while he muttered nonsense to himself in the quiet. His red lips curled together, mashing uncomfortably as his nails raked the skin on his cheek. Eyelids drooping closed, he prayed inwardly for the familiar cool touch of his make-up on his fingertips to coat his flesh. Wishing futilely, his index finger curved along the ridge of his messy lips, remembering what it would feel like to trace his scars with red grease paint. Pensive delusion clouded his thoughts, the barren room disappearing away from his closed eyes. The corners of his taught mouth curved up into a twisted grin, his teeth grinding together painfully within. His fingertips toyed with the edges of his scars, pulling at them painfully until he had to squelch the desire to wince with a small cluck of amusement.

Though delusion only found refuge in a fleeting dream and as the door to his cell came open with a rush of cool air to his face, his childish prayers came crashing down upon him, shattering what was left of his soul. His eyes flew open, dark irises roaming the room wildly. Two guards entered, menacing grimaces clear on their faces. They held guns in their holsters on their utility belt while he idly mused the possibility that they thought they were intimidating him. His lips twisted and his feral, animalistic teeth gnashing quieted as he heard the approaching sound of a third pair of footsteps. He craned his neck and examined the guards who had entered, waiting for his next guest.

"Well, hello boys! You're right on time." He said tartly. The first guard just stared at him, a mass of hulking, mindless muscle and worthless existence. The second one shot him a menacing frown, equip with an attempt at an intimidating growl while the man on the bed just shrugged.

"Prisoner #4711 is detained for the moment. It's safe to enter, Dr. Quinzel." The first guard said monotonously while continuing to stare at the passive man on the bed. The sound of high heels filled their ears as a petite woman shouldered her way into the room, an anxious frown on her flustered face.

"I'm fine, guys, I told you that you don't need to escort me anymore. I have a Ph.D, so I think I can figure out what to do if there's a problem." Doctor Harleen Quinzel quipped, her high pitched voice lilting with annoyance. "It's not like he could do anything to me anyway—he's shackled and clearly incapacitated. You can leave now." She dismissed them with a nod of her head, blonde hair cascading around her delicate shoulders. Both guards left the room without another word, turning to spare a last glance at the psychotic patient who was now smiling pleasantly at the doctor. The door slammed shut, room vibrating momentarily, as they exited. A beat of silence passed before Harleen turned to her patient, lips pursed. The Joker spoke first, his voice rasping and foreboding.

"Actually, Doc, there actually is a lot I can do to you with these shackles on. Sure, they're annoying, but it's not _impossible _to get around, you know." His dark eyes held mischief as his threat rung in her ears. His muddy orbs trained a gaze all the way to her soul, picking her apart and tearing at her seams. It was the moment she exposed herself to his undeniable presence that he began to dissect her with his sinister gaze. His messily dyed green hair tumbled into his face, brown roots beginning to peak through in intermittent places. Harleen reached up a dainty hand to push her thick-rimmed round glasses up the bridge of her nose while clearing her throat softly.

"Hello, Mister Joker. I trust you're doing well," her accent peaked through as she spoke, making the Joker roll his eyes in an amused manner.

"You try on one of these jumpsuits and tell me that you're doing _well_, Doc." His tone was clipped and full of tasteless sarcasm as he gestured to his orange ensemble. Harleen simply sighed, her whispering breath escaping through slightly parted lips.

"Is that all that's bothering you at the moment?" She lightened her tone as she took a seat on a metal chair that was bolted to the ground across from his bed. The Joker's eyes raked over his psychiatrist. She had long, wavy blonde hair that fell to her shoulders and elegantly draped over them all the way to the peak of her breasts. Her body was slight and slender muscle shown through her pink blouse. A navy colored skirt rode up to the beginning of her thighs as she made slow movements to sit down. Her face was childish and heart-shaped with pale skin covering all the thin blue veins that he knew he would be giddy to burst open. He wanted to color her perfect ivory flesh with beautiful bruises and crimson fluid. Maybe that was just desire talking, but a certain aura and the confidence she held drew him to her like a moth to a flame. He turned his head slightly, gazing at her with an easy sureness.

"Oh no, there's plenty more that's bothering me," he nodded his head, greasy green curls tumbling this way and that. His lips curled into a distasteful frown as he continued to look at her cooly. Harleen muttered something under her breath as she pulled out her clipboard. Her pen snapped as the point protruded, ready to write down every word that slipped from his mouth. His authority amazed him sometimes—how he could make her bend or break at a very word. He controlled these sessions. His frown turned sadistic and wicked.

"Would you care to tell me what it is? Maybe I can help...?" She pressed further, her exculpated hope providing no gratification to the monster perched on the bed. A cobra ready to strike.

"Of course, _Harleen,_" He spat her name in a profane curse as if it was foreign to his dialect. It left a bad taste in his mouth. His tongue curled over his lips as he tried to rid himself of the filth, moistening his reddened flesh with saliva. "I don't like this room, it's too dark and gloomy. I mean, if you're trying to depress a guy to death, you've got a great start." He rolled his eyes, condescension clear in his menacing tone. "I also think I'd like more visitors. It gets pretty lonely down here in solitary confinement, when it's not...wow, is it Thursday already? Well, considering you're sitting right there, it must be!" He brought out his syllables in a drawn out fashion, prolonging each one, emphasizing his point. His tongue clucked on the roof of his mouth as Harleen jotted down small scribbles on her notepad. He gazed at her curiously, eyes tracing up and down her petite body. When she looked up at him, she noticed his hungry dissection of her and immediately became flush. A rose colored blush tainted her ivory cheeks and an inhuman gurgle forced it's way up the Joker's throat. His grimace turned into a smirk as he closed his eyes and scooted back on his bed restlessly, shackles clanking. "And, your skirt bothers me, too. It's much too short—too _tempting, _if you know what I mean." Reaching up, he dug the bottoms of his palms into his eye sockets and rubbed at them languidly. His lips curled into an animalistic grin as he pictured the bright red blush on her delicate skin, her blood pumping furiously beneath her ivory flesh. He heard the psychiatrist utter a small cough, embarrassed.

"W-well," when she began to speak, her tone faltered as if his comment had taken her off-guard. He drew his hands away from his eyes and glanced at her. She was flustered—as he had predicted—and was examining her notes intently. A small chuckle escaped his lips before he adopted an indifferent attitude, looking around the room uninterested. "I can't do anything about the uniform, it's policy."

"Oh of course, because no one _ever _modifies policy. Heaven forbid some dipshit decide to make the prisoners more comfortable in their indefinitely long prison sentence in Hell. I mean, we're psychos in a Psych Ward, so it's not like it really matters." He waved a hand around wildly, the other coming by sheer force of the shaking chains attaching them. His dark irises were irritated, black circles the color of bruises dotted the flesh beneath his eyes from a bad night's sleep.

"I'm very sorry, Mister Joker. That's just the way it is. But, I can see about having you moved out of this room to a different one. Perhaps we have one more...cheerful." She suggested, hesitating on the last word. Harleen cringed, eyes flitting closed, as he jumped in with another snarky comment, but this time it was expected.

"R_iiiii_ght, a cheerful cell in solitary confinement. I'd _kill_ to see that, Doc!" Chuckles spewed from his lips along with stray drops of saliva as he grinned ruefully at her. Harleen cleared her throat delicately and readjusted herself in her seat.

"I can also see about getting you moved from Isolation and put into a cell near some other prisoners. In my professional opinion I think it would be good for you to socialized at least a little with—"

"Oh, _God, _put me anywhere but next to that damn annoyance, Eddie! I'd rather sit in Isolation for the rest of my life, eating nothing but my own hair, than be in a cell next to _him!_" He cursed his name with violent intensity that startled Harleen. His reaction was stunningly physical as well. He fell forward, collapsing on his thighs, back cracking with the effort. His chains dipped in between his knees as he rested his head on top of his left leg before pulling himself up.

"Are you referring to Edward Nigma?" Harleen clarified, pulling herself back in case he reacted as violently again. He just tipped his head towards her, peaking at her beneath his heavy curls.

"Of _course _I am, Doc. Is there anyone else as annoying that I would be referring to?" He spat rhetorically. "Riddle me this, riddle me that, oh for the love of—I don't care!" He did his best imitation of the self-obsessed Riddler.

"Okay, okay," Harleen surrendered, deciding not to press the point any further since it was obviously a sore spot. "I'll see about getting you moved to a sufficient cell." The Joker shrugged, pulling himself back up. His spine straitened, cracking as it went, while his eyes remained fixated on the psychiatrist the entire time.

"And...the last item I mentioned?" He pressed when she was quiet. Again, a blush surfaced unintentionally as Harleen fixed her glasses.

"Well, if I'm disrupting your concentration, then I'll wear a pair of slacks next time as opposed to a skirt. I wouldn't want to tempt you to do—"

"Don't misunderstand me, Harleen." He interrupted, raising his hands defiantly. "The only reason I tell you is because you're giving women a bad name by dressing like a skank. There's only one kind of attention you're going to attract by wearing _that_ in a Psych Ward. Unless of course, you have a _thing _for crazies." He mocked, his lips twisting into a feral growl.

"Mister Joker, please don't talk that way about me, I don't—"

"Oh, but sweets, you _do!_ Now, don't you go thinking you tempt me like _that_. No, no, I'm not interested in anything like _that_." He waved his hand dismissively as the blush reddened on Harleen's cheeks, her face practically lighting up in flames. "But when you wear such revealing clothing, it does something to me. Brings out a monster, you know?" He paused, his lips curling into a sickly sweet smile. "It makes me want to _rip your face off_." He leaned in closer to her, threat ringing in her ears. The psychiatrist gulped, trying to appear unaffected. Her blond locks quivered as her shoulders shook, a dead giveaway of her fear. The Joker inhaled the air around him, wetting his lips with a lick of his tongue. He could practically taste the anxiety radiating off of her.

"I'm not addressing that matter any further. We're moving on for today," her tone shuddered, tingling his eardrums as her voice melted. He gave her a slight grin before adjusting himself comfortably on the bed. His legs twisted, trying to cross, but were prevented to because of the harsh cuffs confining him. Heaving a sigh, he resigned himself to just sit and stare straight ahead at the doctor.

"Alright, what's next then?" He rasped, voice heavy and toneless. It was almost as if he spoke in a tone that was neither tenor nor bass, something completely different to the ears of morals. There was nothing sweet about the quality it held. Nothing dreamy in it's pitch. But somehow, it entranced Harleen. Made her lean forward to listen to the hopeless man throwing out lies and threats as if they were nothing but meaningless words. Which essentially was what they were. Nothing but empty syllables.

"I brought some pictures I'd like to show you." She nodded, hopeful that he would finally go along with _something _that she had planned. The Joker simply stared, amused, at the girl as she reached into her bag for 4 large pieces of cardboard.

"Oh goodie. I can't wait." He mused, eyes dancing. He leaned back, spine resting against the headboard of his bed as he kicked his legs up onto the mattress. A contented sigh escaped his lips as he moved his gaze to the ceiling, staring lackadaisically at the white canvas. Finally, the doctor pulled a picture she was happy with and held it towards him. He didn't turn his head, he simply continued to stare upward.

"Can you tell me what you see here?" Her voice was high and peppy as he glanced over, uninterested, at her now smiling face. Her lips coated with a light gloss shone in the dim light of his cell. Her blue eyes blinked hopefully, wide orbs of blissful ignorance. He had to try constantly to squash the desire to gouge them out of their sockets with a carving knife. Clearing his gravelly throat, he shifted his gaze to the picture of a dark inkblot in her slim fingered grasp. Throwing his head back in insane laughter, he barked out only a few nonsense syllables. Harleen's brow furrowed as she tried to guess the punchline of the gag. "I don't understand what's so funny here." She pressed, feeling a bit discouraged.

"Y-you're going to give me a _Rorschach Test?_" The Joker got out between gasps of laughter. Harleen stared at him cooly.

"Yes." She answered simply. Turning his head, he gave her a pitying glance.

"Oh, you're being serious." He remarked in a startled manner. His laughter came to a close as he studied the picture with mock intensity. "Alright, I got it. I see...a bat." He said simply and went back to staring at the ceiling.

"Okay," Harleen jotted down a few notes down before shifting the picture to another inkblot. "How about now?"

"A bat." He repeated lifelessly.

"And now?"

"Hnn, it's another bat."

Harleen sighed heavily. "And this one?"

"It's still a bat." Throwing down her pictures, she growled in exasperation.

"Are you just going to say that for every single picture I show you?" Her voice was almost a cry in its distressed whining pitch. Her mouth was taught and her pink lips pulled down in a frown at the corners.

"As long as you keep showing me pictures of bats, I will." He retorted, sparing her an amused glance. The girl sighed, frustrated. "How many of these am I going to have to do until you're satisfied, Doc? I'm on a bit of a time clock, if you don't mind," he said tartly with a smack of his lips. "There's not many things I enjoy here, but today _is _pizza day in the cafeteria, and I would be very upset if I missed that." Harleen leaned back in her own chair, unamused at his idle time wasting. Reaching up a hand, she smoothed back her long golden locks. Her glasses drooped down to the middle of her nose as her patient smile at her from across the way.

"You can have lunch when we're done here. And _I _say when we're through," her tone quivered with the authoritarian threat. A heavy exhale left the lips of the Joker as he turned to face the blonde. His cheekbones protruded, seeming especially pale in the fluorescent light of the cell.

"If _that's _the way we're gonna play it," a reptilian grin crept across his facial features.

"This isn't a game, Mister Joker!" She protested.

"Oh, but life is a game, dear. It's always been a pitiful, pathetic game that's so damn precious to everyone that they're too blind to see it's full of nothing but greed, cheating, and lies. If you're so intent on wasting _my _worthless time with your silly little flashcards, then be my guest." The Joker exclaimed, bravado peaking. Harleen felt herself grow pink with embarrassment though she couldn't figure out why. She had done nothing wrong—she'd been doing her job!—but somehow he always got to her. He unnerved her without even trying. His words traced into her cerebellum and she tried pitifully to escape the powerful grasp of the clown, but she could not. He was nothing more than just a man. A troubled, sad, lonely man. And Harleen couldn't refuse her desires to give in to him. To submit to his psychotic will.

"Fine," she relented, putting her flashcards down and falling back in her chair, spine knocking against the seat. The Joker grinned at her while curiously picking her apart with his eyes. "What do you want to talk about, then? You say my ideas are silly, so you pick." She challenged him. Something that no one should _ever _do. He felt pride swell within him. A sick sense of bluster built up inside of him until it pried at the fringes of his sanity. A smile danced at the corners of his mouth wickedly. He was ready to trap his prey.

"I just have one question, Harleen."

"Dr. Quinzel," she corrected gently. He rolled his eyes in response, ignoring her. He kicked his feet off the bed and his socks cushioned their impact against the concrete flooring. Stretching his legs out, he gave a tired yawn, yellowing teeth becoming prominent in Harleen's line of sight.

"Just one. Little. Question." He grinned at her when his mouth closed. His voice was sweet, almost an innocent trickle in her ears. A shiver ran up her spine, thwarting her calm exterior.

"Yes?" She answered, urging him to get on with it.

"What...is your favorite color, Doc?" He pushed his neck out, craning it as if to hear her better. His shackles jingled in the silence of the room. Harleen's brow furrowed. Desperately, answers floated through her mind. Was this a trick question? Could he be serious? Was he ever serious? The Joker continued to stare at her, a predator sinking his claws into the soft fur of his unsuspecting prey. "It's a simple question, sweets. Not that hard to answer." His voice grated through the still air, specs of dust still dancing around them. Legs creaking, he brought himself to his feet, a towering stature over her sitting form. His lanky body contorted, mimicking the movements of a leisurely stroll.

"I don't really have a favorite color. Red, I guess." She admitted at last, curiously. The Joker walked towards her at a slow gate, chains clinking as he went. His steps were small and purposeful to keep his balance, his hands swinging this way and that as he closed in on her. His lips were set in a smile.

"Red? _Really?" _His soft voice purred. Harleen nodded uncertainly. "The sweet crimson color of blood as it trickles from the veins of humans. When a fist connects with flesh so hard it parts, bursting vessels, granting a twisted sense of self-gratification. Yes, that's a lovely color, Doctor Quinzel. But do you know what?" He teased, bending over so his face was right in hers. When she didn't take the bait and answer, he went on anyway. "I like _all _colors. I think they all have something to offer. See, there's red, the color scarlet of blood. But that's only when it hits oxygen. Blood is really blue, you know. When it's in our veins, pumping through our pathetic bodies. I like blue because when you look at a dead person, they're not pale white like everyone thinks. No, no, no. When you look at a real dead body, the flesh has an eerie blueish tint to it.

"Oh, and depending on _how _they die...well, let's say it was from my personal favorite, fire. The orange flames lick at the body, contorting it to give it an apricot hue. Now, that's a wonderful color on a human. Not natural, you know. The human body doesn't have anything really orange in it. So you need to give it something artificial to color it. Like, acid!" His voice rose in pitch as his eyes lit with an inhuman spark of delight. His graphic details made Harleen's stomach twist with nausea. She swallowed hard, unsure whether to interrupt him. Instead, she sat quietly, allowing him to finish. He stopped pacing to turn to look at her curiously. "Are you alright, Harleen? Looking a little _green_, aren't'cha?" He laughed, a low throaty chuckle, before going on. "Humans get that way. When they're scared. Upset. Sick. Jealous. They're green beings, then. But, when they're sick, diseased, I mean, they're yellow. When jaundice takes over, _everything _white and pure about them turns that sickly color. Cancerous, you know? But, I think the _best_ way to die is asphyxiation. When your hands connect with that neck flesh, cutting off all their oxygen, they turn all purple_. _Being purple when your dead seems very nice. But you know, it's also the color of...bruises. They say that they're black and blue, but they always look more purple when they're on the neck..." He trailed off as he stood behind the doctor, voice evening out to a quiet pitch. She was lulled into a trance of staring straight ahead. Her stomach turned with what he said, but somehow she couldn't shake the eerie hypnosis he dragged her down into. Slowly, behind her, the Joker grinned in a sadistic terrifying way that made any onlookers feel an immediate sense of dread. Without hesitation, he slipped his hands—cuffs and all—around the small neck of the psychiatrist. Immediately, she sucked in air and tried to turn around, shocked. His thumb pressed into her windpipe, preventing her from speaking as he bent down to grin at her.

"See, Harleen? I told you I could do _plenty _with these shackles on!" His laughter carried so loudly it was heard outside of the cell. It echoed through the room, haunting the ears of those who heard it. Harleen protested in his grip, reaching wildly, hands clutching at his own rough ones to try and pry them off. Her eyes connected with his, gazes merging into one telepathic transmission. Her blue doe-eyes widened as they bore into his own dark ones. He felt something stir inside of him. A familiarity of sorts. His heart pounded in his ears. He could have another kill—show them whose really boss around here. His lips mashed together as he squeezed her flesh and felt the soft skin of her hands claw at his.

Slowly, a thought crept into his mind. Life was a game, wasn't it? Once, he had thought of her as a pawn in his giant game of life-or-death chess. But, he was gradually coming to realize that it would be so much fun if he granted her entrance. Allowed her to be his...queen, instead. He couldn't sacrifice one of the most important pieces just yet. No, he had to time his movements just so as to not waste his players. Whether she liked it or not, Harleen was still going to play his game. Just for a little longer.

Immediately, he let go of her throat and backed up towards the door. Drawing in a huge gasp, Harleen collapsed forward onto her own knees, taking in huge inhalations of the tainted and dirty air around her. The Joker raised his shackled hand to rap his white knuckles on the metal door a few times for the guards to come.

"M-mister Joker..." Harleen gasped, eyes wild as she gathered her papers up and stood. The Joker simply stared cooly at her, head lolling against the wall behind him. She fingered the indents on her neck and was about to speak as the door swung open, two guards pushing into the room. The Joker fell back against the wall as they shouldered their way in, taking both his arms and dragging him towards his bed. They threw him down, mattress creaking in protest, as small laughs tumbled from his scarred mouth. Harleen glanced back at him, still holding her neck as the guards ushered her out. Smiling, the Joker gave a small wave to the exiting figures, noting Harleen was still staring at him despite the two huge men encouraging her to leave.

"In my opinion, I think you look dazzling in purple, Harleen!" He called after her, voice echoing in her ears even as the door slammed shut behind them, leaving them worlds apart. She reached a hand up and stroked her neck, feeling where his grip had been.

.

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**A/N: **Wishing lots of smiles & laughs to all my readers ^.^ Reviews would be lovely, and I thank you so much for reading! ((PS: My favorite color happens to be purple...I think I might have projected onto our dear Mistah J a little bit...hehehe... Sorries! ;D))


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